


Do You Remember?

by thejabberwocky



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Cheating, Collection of one shots, Collection of some finished works, Collection of unfinished works, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Phone Sex, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwocky/pseuds/thejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of one-shots and unfinished works related to Shevine or The Voice fandom.  Prompt fills will also be added to this.</p>
<p>If anyone wants to claim an unfinished work and finish it, then by all means please feel free to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. try to tell you no (but my body keeps on telling you yes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started writing, and then it morphed into the premise for "All I Want," but this no longer felt like it clicked with the rest of that fic. This version will likely not be finished.

The worst part isn't the walk of shame he had to do, wearing his jeans and t-shirt from the night before, smelling like a bar, or the way he didn't even stay to help himself to coffee to try to cure his hangover, or the way that he finds his shoes and underwear under the bed (the bed that isn't his, Jesus _Christ_ ), or the way he takes his key off of his keyring and slips it under the mat after he locks the door behind him (he doesn't have any right to it anymore, he knows that)--the worst part is that he doesn't remember it.

There are flashes, ghostly impressions, but he doesn't _remember_. He knows, from the faint burn in... _personal_ places, from the hickey on his neck and the hand-shaped bruises on his hips, what happened, and if he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can almost faintly feel the scratch and scrape of a beard against his own clean-shaven cheeks. It's clear what happened, he _knows_ what happened, but he doesn't remember.

He'd always thought that if he got what he wanted (needed, prayed for, dreamed about), he'd treasure the memory of it the rest of his life. He'd always thought that if he did get his best friend into bed, it would be forever, it would be on his mind and in his heart for the rest of his life.

But after his sixth shot, he was so far gone that, by the time morning came, these little clues were the only confirmation he really had of what he suspected when he woke up in Blake's bed.

* * *

 

He left because he panicked, he's man enough to admit that. He woke up next to Blake fucking Shelton, the big lug spread out with one arm thrown over Adam's stomach, not snoring, exactly, more snuffling, and maybe he wouldn't have freaked out, because yeah, waking up like this (he'd admit to nobody but himself, at this point) is something he'd been dreaming about for the last few _years_ , but the arm stretched out over his body is Blake's left.

Blake's left arm, on Adam's stomach, and Blake's wedding ring, on his left ring finger.

It was the thought of Miranda, the thought of Behati, that drove him out of bed as quietly as he can despite his throbbing head and roiling stomach. He dressed and pointedly didn't look at Blake, still sleeping soundly, on his way out.

* * *

 

The morning after—the entire _day_ after—Adam wars with whether or not he's going to tell Behati. He never thought that he would cheat—it's totally against everything he's ever believed in, and he's been burned _so_ many times by ex-lovers going behind his back. He never thought that he would do something like this, betraying Behati, let alone being the other man for someone else. Fucking _Christ_.

He turns off his phone as soon as he's in the cab, and starts drinking again as soon as he gets home. He has three beers and half of a bottle of tequila that he's planning on getting through. He settles himself in bed, the bottles scattered around him, all of the lights off, his dogs laying at his bedside looking at him and occasionally whining in concern, and thinks.

He had sex with Blake.

_Damn_ , that thought is a hard one to get through. He can't even begin to process the aftermath, let alone the act. He imagined it, of course, it would be the biggest lie in the world to say that he hadn't thought of it at least a million times a day for the last four _years_ , and--

And then he and Blake cheated. With each other.

That was never, ever something that he wanted. Even when he let himself fantasize, actively _think_ about it instead of idly going “ _damn_ , son” when Blake walked by and Adam got a look at his ass, he made vague excuses for their respective wives' absences in their lives. Maybe Miranda and Blake finally split because of the drinking, the pain of it outweighing the love and Adam would be there to comfort him, and maybe Behati was just too tired of the long days and weeks away from Adam to stay, too sick of him being caught up at his piano, scratching out notes when she _was_ home instead of lounging in bed with her; maybe Miranda and Behati realized how they felt about each other (and damn, until Adam woke up in Blake's bed, he never in a million years would have thought his friend actually felt something _sexual_ for him) and stepped out of the picture willingly to give them a shot at love; maybe, maybe, maybe. It was never, ever something forbidden in his fantasies, not like—like what he'd done.

He knows he can't lie to her, but _God_ , he wants to. He wants to get away with this, to have that memory (which he doesn't, and that—even though it should be Behati—is probably his biggest regret about all of this; if he had to ruin the best friendship he's ever had, he would've liked to at least have that moment to hold onto), _and_ his wife. But Adam knows he can't do that, he knows himself too well.

So he sits on his bed, three beers and a quarter bottle of tequila in, the pain in his head both worse and less, and waits for the reckoning.

* * *

 

When Behati finally comes home, she finds him completely _wasted_ in their bed, the empty beer bottles discarded on the floor, and the nearly-finished tequila in his hand.

“Babe?” she says, trying to keep her voice down while still attracting his attention, trying to be gentle. Adam doesn't—won't--(can't)--look at her.

“Bee,” he says, voice low and rough, filled with more anguish than drunkenness.

“What's wrong, babe?” she asks, dropping her handbag without a second thought to the floor, ignoring the dogs for the moment. She climbs into bed beside him, laying on her side to look at him and gently stroking one hand over his arm—he flinches, and she draws back into herself, startled. “Adam?”

“Bee,” he says again, voice breaking, and it's obvious that he's been crying. “I fucked up.”

“What happened?” she asks, frowning at him in concern. He tries to answer, but chokes and shakes his head.

“I—fuck, Bee,” he says. “I wrecked this. I fucked it all up.”

“What are you talking about, honey?”

“I—last night, I— _fuck_ ,” he repeats, not quite whimpering, and she wants to reach out to him again because he's obviously in so much pain, but doesn't, remembering the way he flinched away. He still won't look at her. “I went home with Blake.”

Behati frowns even deeper in confusion. “Okay?”

Adam chokes on a strangled laugh. “No, Bee—I _fucked Blake_.”

“Okay?” she repeats. “Sweetheart, I don't get it.” He finally looks at her, confusion warring with pain and guilt in his eyes. “Is this—wow, was this the first time?”

“What?”

“I thought—wow.” She sits up, looking intently at him. “Adam, this whole time—since I _met_ you—I thought you and he... had a thing.”

“ _What_?”

“Babe, I'm pretty sure everyone thinks that,” she says. “So, last night—it hasn't happened before?” He shakes his head mutely, still staring at her in shock. “That's...” Behati shakes her head, too. “So what's wrong?”

“I _cheated_ on you,” he says, and she smiles gently at him.

“I don't care,” she says bluntly, “not when it's him.”

“ _Bee_ ,” he says, voice breaking. Her smile fades.

“That isn't all, is it?” He shakes his head. “What happened?”

“I just—I fucked everything up with him. With you—for _him_ , with Miranda, if he tells her.” She grabs his hand, refusing to let him pull away, and squeezes.

After a long moment, she says, “Adam—do you love him?” He won't meet her eyes, but nods. She nods, too—she already knew, apparently even before he did. “Do you love him more than you love me?” He chokes and squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his hand back. It's answer enough, but she wants him to say it. “ _Adam_.”

“Yes.” He shakes his head, burying his face in his hands. “I'm sorry, Bee, I'm so _sorry_ \--”

“It's okay, babe,” she says softly. “It'll be okay. He loves you, too, you know. We can all see it--” He's crying openly, now, and he's shaking his head. “Adam, Adam, you need to calm down, babe. Just—tell me what you want. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it. Tell me how to help you, tell me what you need, babe. Let me help.”

* * *

 

 

It's been seventeen hours since Behati left. She didn't leave after her bombshell revelation that she'd known about his feelings for Blake—instead, when he had pleaded with her, finally looked her in the eye and said “I need you,” she had nodded and held him while he cried and drank.

In the end, it wasn't Adam's feelings for his best friend that drove her away, it was his drinking.

The irony of what always happened in his fantasies to Blake and Miranda happening to him and Behati is not lost on Adam, but it's a bitter pill to swallow. He knows that she's right, but it hasn't stopped him from spending the last two weeks _extremely_ wasted.

When she leaves, she's given him days' worth of warning, asking him to please stop drinking, to come with her and do his morning yoga, to fly with her to New York for her next show. He promised to try, each and every time she asked something of him, but getting out of bed was just such an _effort_ , such a Herculean task, that he can barely keep himself groomed, let alone pay attention to her as she deserves.

When Behati leaves, she packs extra bags. She's going to New York, she says, which Adam knew was coming, but she tells him that she isn't coming back. “Please, Adam,” she says, voice so soft and gentle and loving and he knows he doesn't deserve any of it so it hurts just hearing her voice, “think about this. You're tearing yourself apart, babe, and I _love you_. Please get yourself together. If you come after me, I'm not going to turn you away—just, please, do it _sober_.”

He doesn't say anything back, and once he's left alone in the quiet and the dark and the stillness of his house, he realizes that part of him was _trying_ to drive her away. He doesn't know—doesn't _want_ to know—if it's because he thinks he doesn't deserve her, or if it's because she isn't the one he actually wants.

* * *

 

Adam doesn't answer his phone, doesn't read his texts, and he doesn't know if it's a good or bad thing that it takes three weeks of radio silence for someone to come and check on him. He wakes up around one in the afternoon after just a few hours of sleep, still a little drunk from his last few shots, with someone ringing his doorbell. Repeatedly.

Groaning, he rolls (stumbles) out of bed, not bothering to glance in the mirror because he knows he isn't presentable, plans on just opening the door long enough to snap at whoever it is to _go away_ , he's _grieving_ , not just for one person, but two people, now. Instead, he cracks the door and finds it being shoved open.

“What the _hell_ , Adam!” It's Christina, and Adam gets thrown for a loop for a moment, because he hasn't seen her since just after they finished filming season 5 of _The Voice_. She breezes past him, paying no heed to him, or the dogs nosing at her legs in excitement, or the still-open front door Adam hasn't bothered to close, hoping she'll walk back through it and leave him alone. In true Christina fashion, however, she keeps talking, not intending to let him get a word in edgewise even if he had wanted to. “I start calling everyone to let them know I'm coming back for season eight, and all anyone can say is 'have you talked to Adam? Is he okay?' What has been going _on_ with you, why haven't you been answering your phone?” She finally stops, looking at him with a pinched expression. “Adam, you look terrible.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” Adam murmurs, swinging his door closed at last, giving up on the idea that she'll leave him be. He runs a hand through his hair, still mussed from sleep, and heads for the kitchen and an unopened bottle of... something, he forgets what he has left.

“Seriously, Adam, everyone is really worried about you,” she says. “Even _Blake_ hasn't heard from you, so we know something is seriously wrong.” He flinches slightly at the mention of Blake's name, but Christina doesn't seem to notice, thankfully. “Adam.”

Instead of answering her question, he says, “Do you want a drink?” She grabs his wrist, looking at him with concern and anger warring on her face, a distinctive look that he's seen her wear before.

“ _Adam_.”

“I'm having one,” he says, tugging himself free from her grasp. She follows him into the kitchen, watching mutely while he finds a bottle—ah, it's whiskey, awesome. Of course it's what he saved for last, because even though he know Blake prefers tequila and vodka, whiskey makes him think of country music and, well. Blake. He pours it out and knocks it back as a shot, obstinately refusing to look at Christina, though he can feel her eyes burning holes into him.

“What's going on, sweetie?” she says, and he nearly knocks the bottle over in surprise and unease at her tenderness. “What happened?”

Adam takes the coward's way out. “Bee left.”

“Oh, Adam, _honey_.” Christina hugs him, then, but he doesn't let go of the bottle, or his glass, waiting for her to release him so that he can pour another shot. “What happened? Last time I saw you two, you were both doing so great!”

Adam doesn't answer, just shakes his head, and pours another drink as she pulls back. “You're not gonna make me drink alone, are you?” The attempt at a joke falls flat, especially since it's obvious to both of them that he's been doing a lot of that, but Christina finally nods and Adam pours her a drink. His voice turns grim. “Cheers.” He goes to sit down on his couch, letting his dogs pile into his lap while holding his drink out of reach of them.

They sit in silence for several long minutes, Christina studying Adam carefully. He finishes his drink long before she does, but doesn't get up to get another just yet. “I cheated on her. She didn't leave me because of that, though. She didn't—she wasn't mad at me. At all. I still can't get my head around that, but I guess it doesn't matter—she left anyway.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she repeats. “I'm so sorry.” There's a long pause. “Who--” Adam shakes his head—he knows what she's asking, knows that if he answers—he can't.

“Doesn't matter,” he says, but his voice— _damn_ it, his voice—cracks.

“Sounds like it does.”

“It shouldn't,” he says, shaking his head. “It can't.”

“It meant something to you, though, didn't it?” He'd forgotten, though he doesn't know how he managed it, how perceptive she is.

“I guess. More than I wanted it to.”

“Did you want Behati to leave? So you could get with her, this other woman?” Adam flinches at that, and laughs involuntarily.

“That's not—I can't talk about this.”

“Adam,” she sighs, and shakes her head. There's another pause. “When's the last time you ate something? You're so thin.”

“Yesterday,” he grumbles. “I ate dinner.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, obviously not buying it. “C'mon.” She stands up, putting down her untouched drink carefully on the coffee table. “We're going out. I'm gonna have to fatten you up before the first taping or the fans are going to get nervous.” The joke is strained, but Adam stands, looking around for shoes and, miraculously, finds two that match, slipping them on before following her out to her car.

* * *

 

Christina takes him to a sushi restaurant, knowing that it's his weakness, and it's one they both knew has a back room. She sits him down, feeling awkward with his unkempt hair and hoodie next to her in her usual flawless attire, her hair as perfect as always.

“Stay here,” she orders, jabbing a finger at him, and he nods. Adam realizes belatedly, too drunk to care, that she's probably going to go call the other coaches—including Blake. He thinks about slipping out, trying to make a run for it and catch a cab, but he's way too drunk to get away very quick, having thrown back Christina's drink, too, before leaving with her.

He orders for both of them while she's gone, and then lays his head down, pillowed on his arms on the table, waiting for her, for the food he doesn't plan to eat, for something else to happen. The drink he'd also ordered comes, but he can sense that if he has another right now, he'll throw up, so he doesn't pick up his head, murmuring a thank you and waving one hand vaguely at the waitress.

“Tell me you didn't pass out.” Adam doesn't want to move, doesn't want to respond, but he can't help it—he hears Blake's voice and can't _not_ answer. He groans and shakes his head without looking up, and Blake chuckles darkly. “Well, that's somethin'.”

“Adam, honey, scoot over.” He groans again but obeys and lets Christina slide in next to him, Blake taking the seat across from him.

“Christina didn't tell me what's going on, just that you need your friends right now,” Blake says, and Adam, though he hates the reminder of how well he knows Blake, hears what he's saying underneath that: _I didn't tell her about us_. “I'd hoped you'd've remembered me.” It's a joke, but there's genuine hurt in his voice, and Adam finally picks his head back up, slouching back in the booth. Blake's worried expression, his frown, is almost too much for Adam, and he wants to run out of the restaurant, but Christina's trapping him.

“Bee left,” he says, just like he told Christina, but he can see Blake's shock, and the fleeting guilt that passes over his face before he covers it with sympathy. “It's--” He shakes his head and feels himself leaning to the side, his balance thrown. Christina pulls him down to rest his head on her shoulder, one of her hands on his thigh. “She wasn't mad at me, but I—I still wrecked it. I mean, I _cheated_ on her, why would she have stayed?” It's Blake's turn to flinch at that, and again, because all her focus is on Adam, Christina doesn't notice.

“Adam,” Blake says, voice low, filled with gravel and tenderness that makes Adam's stomach churn unpleasantly—or maybe that's just the natural consequence of too much liquor and too little to eat. “I am so, _so_ sorry. You have no idea.” Adam laughs, a little hysterically, and turns his face into Christina.

“Your tits are fantastic,” he says in an attempt at levity, and Christina laughs. He still feels like shit, still wishes she hadn't called Blake, but he made her laugh. That's something.

“Okay, honey, you are officially _way_ too wasted.”

“Mm, not as wasted as the last time I saw Blake,” Adam says, wondering why he's talking about it, and how long they're both going to get away with talking around the fact that they slept with each other before Christina catches onto it. “I blacked out.”

There's an awkward pause, and then Blake's low rumble asks, “Have you been drinkin' ever since?” Adam nods slowly, trying not to make himself dizzier than he already is.

“Mm, on and off,” he says. “Off when I sleep.” Adam laughs, but he's the only one of the three to do so.

“Hey, Christina—you wanna go see where the food's at?” It's an obvious ploy to get time alone with Adam—and Christina acquiesces easily. Why shouldn't she? As far as she knows, Adam is just a guy who's having a rough time, and Blake is his best friend. Once she's out of ear shot, Blake clears his throat and reaches for Adam's hand that's resting on the table before drawing back, thinking better of it. “Adam... I'm so sorry that I fucked things up between you and Bee. I never meant for that to happen.”

“That was on me,” Adam says. “She's my wife, I should've thought about it.”

“You were too far gone, man,” Blake rebuts, shaking his head slowly. “It's—I wish you'd've called. I tried callin' you.”

“I know. I saw.”

“You didn't answer,” Blake says, stating the obvious, but the hurt in his voice cuts deep at Adam. “And you left your key. What the hell's goin' on with you? Did I wreck us, too?”

“I don't know, Blake,” Adam sighs, settling back into the booth, trying not to fall over and embarrass himself too badly, “I just—we both have people we should've been thinking about and weren't, and—everything's just fucked up. We fucked it up— _I_ fucked it up.”

“I did just as much as you,” Blake points out, then sighs himself. “If nothin' else, I just want us to be friends again. I miss you.”

Adam shakes his head. “I can't,” he chokes out. “I—I can't be around you, I can't _think_ about you. It's driving me crazy, Blake. This—that night, it was a mistake, okay? But it's one I can't stop _thinking_ about, and I wish--”

“Yeah?”

“I don't know. I think sometimes I wish I wouldn't have ever met you.” Blake looks like Adam just kicked his puppy, then punched him in the gut, and then backed over his childhood teddy bear with his car. Adam feels like less than dirt, but then Blake's wedding ring flashes in the light as the taller man crosses his arms over his chest, and Adam feels righteous indignation flare up inside him. “Can you go see where Christina went? I don't think I'm up to eating—I just want to go home.”

* * *

 

Despite his low mood through the drive back, Christina seems confident that talking to Blake would've helped him, and so she sits outside the bathroom door to make sure he doesn't fall and hurt himself while he showers, then puts him to bed and makes him promise to try to drink a little less and answer his phone. Adam promises easily, though he only half-listens to her demands—anything to just get her out of there.

The instant he hears the door shut behind her, he gives in to his feelings, turning onto his side and bawling like he hasn't since the night he confessed everything to Behati.

* * *

 

Adam calls her in the morning. He wakes up, having gotten eight hours for the first time in weeks, and feeling vaguely queasy but generally better, so he picks up his phone and, despite the fact that none of his eighty-three missed calls are from her, he dials and waits for her to answer.

“Adam,” Behati answers, voice warm but cautious. “How are you?”

“I'm--” He thinks about it for a moment. “--better.”

“That's good,” Bee says, and he can hear in her voice that she's genuinely glad for him.

“How's New York?”

“Oh, you know,” she says. “Busy. Lots of girl-time and great shopping.” He does know, he remembers, and he almost smiles. There's a long pause. “You aren't coming after me, are you?”

“No,” he says honestly. “I'm sorry, I really am—I hope you know that, I really do.”

“I do,” she assures him, and god, she's been so great about all of this, and Adam never deserved her anyway.

“It's just—it wouldn't be fair to you,” he says. “I can't be your husband when I feel... the way I do for someone else.”

“For Blake.”

“Yeah.” There's another long pause. Adam clears his throat. “So, what now?”

“You're going to start filming season eight soon, right?”

“Couple of months, yeah,” he answers, and suddenly remembers that New Year's is coming in just a few _days_ and that he's probably going to be alone because he couldn't face his mother or his brother, not like this. He ignores the sick, sad feeling that brings.

“Let's wait until you've started filming, get settled back in,” she says, and Adam hates this, and if he weren't already signed on for season eight, he wouldn't be back, wouldn't be where he has to see Blake fucking Shelton every fucking day. Bee continues. “We can talk later about—what we're going to do. Legally.”

“I—yeah. Okay,” he agrees, because he's going to give her whatever she wants. “I'm sorry.”

“I know,” she says, voice sad but not unkind. “I hope everything works out for you.” Adam wants to cry, but clears his throat and chokes back tears because he doesn't need to burden her with the fucked up story of how sex with Blake ruined his marriage but Miranda is still left standing.

“You've been better than I deserve,” Adam tells her, “and I just—thank you. For not... for not hating me.”

“I could never hate you, Adam,” Bee assures him. “You'll always be like family to me, even if you aren't my husband. Even if—it might hurt too much, for a while, to see you.”

Adam licks his lips. “Yeah. I—you too.”

There's an awkward lull, and then Bee says, “I'm really glad you called. I have to go now, though. I'm just—glad we got to talk. I hope you have fun with the next season.”

“Yeah,” he croaks, “thanks. Bye, Bee.”

They hang up, and Adam pauses to text Christina that he's called Bee like he promised to before turning his phone off again and heading for the kitchen. He thinks there's some schnapps leftover in the freezer somewhere from Thanksgiving.

* * *

 

The band shows up on New Year's Eve, and it makes Adam feel sick and selfish and less than human that he never actually spared a thought for them during his breakdown. They're all carrying alcohol, and James puts a gold plastic party hat on his head before Adam can protest.

“Drink up, because we're going out tonight,” Jesse says, popping a bottle of beer open and shoving it at him. “You've spent enough time at home alone, man.”

Adam knows that they're right, and that he's running out of time to have a productive break between seasons, to feel better and look normal when they start filming again. He tries to smile, and Jesse huffs a breath and shakes his head. “I'm gonna go find something for you to wear, man.”

He glances down and grimaces at his sweatpants, shaking his head and throwing himself down on the couch, waiting for Jesse to reemerge from his bedroom. James sits down next to him, a beer in his hand, too.

“The fuck, Adam,” he mutters, shaking his head and throwing an arm over Adam's shoulders. “Christina called. Why didn't you, man?” He shrugs one shoulder, and James shakes his head. “Nevermind, I know the answer to that. I wasn't around for Jane, y'know, but I saw how you were after.” The memory of that is bittersweet now for Adam—breaking up with Jane hurt, a lot, probably like this, but Adam's glad for it, now. They weren't right for each other, and he had a fantastic spate of songs pouring out of his head and heart.

This time around, though, he hasn't even picked up his guitar.

Jesse throws clothes at him, and Adam obediently goes to change. The skinny jeans are a little loose, and he frowns but chooses not to think too hard on that, finding a belt and tugging on the soft sweater Jesse chose.

“Thanks, guys,” he murmurs once they're piling into the car, and they give him gentle smiles and he feels even more like an ass because these guys are so great, and he doesn't deserve having them around. This is his fault and he should deal with the fallout.

“Just try to have fun tonight, man,” Jesse says. “Get outta your head.”

* * *

 

He thinks he had fun, but the next morning, Adam doesn't remember what happened. He wakes up in his own bed, at least, but when he walks out into his living room, Blake is sitting there on his couch, Bones' head in his lap, looking through his phone. Blake looks up when he hears Adam, who stops dead in the doorway. Bones breaks the silence with a soft _ruff_ of discontent, and Blake resumes petting him.

“Hey,” Blake says. Adam stares at him blankly, a million questions buzzing through his head—what happened last night? Why is Blake here, of all people? What did he _do_ last night? “Adam?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, and Blake gives him a wary, sympathetic grimace.

“Hangover?” he asks, twang strong in a way that it only gets when he's nervous. Adam nods, grateful for the out, whether Blake's giving it to him intentionally or not. Blake nods slowly. “Let me get you some water.”

Adam shakes his head. “I got it.”

Blake follows him into the kitchen anyway, gently shoving the dog away. “So. Last night was pretty crazy, huh?”

“I wouldn't know,” Adam says, starting his coffee maker and filling a glass of water from the sink.

“Another blackout night?” Blake asks, and he sounds nervous now. Adam turns the tap off, his gut churning.

“Seems that way,” he says. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“You might wanna sit down,” Blake says.

“Why? Did we--”

“No!” Blake nearly shouts, and Adam winces as the loud tone makes his head throb. “No, you made it... pretty clear how you felt about...” He clears his throat awkwardly, rocking back onto his heels, hands shoved into his jeans pockets.

“Just tell me,” Adam demands, tone flat, drinking down his water like a shot.

“I was on the phone with your publicist, just so ya know,” Blake says, eyes darting from the cabinets to the tile to the ceiling—looking anywhere but at Adam. “I don't think anybody... took any photos or anything like that, but--”

“What'd I do?” he groans, pouring out his coffee, hands shaking.

“I—should I start from the beginnin'?”

“Just tell me. Start talking or get out, Shelton.” These are the kind of “fighting words” that they've said to each other hundreds of times before, but Adam's voice is flat, lacking their usual joking tone. Blake lets out a huff of breath, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“You blew some guy in a club last night,” Blake says. “I don't think you knew him before that, but you got pretty well acquainted.”

Adam groans, and then takes a large gulp of coffee. He's maybe not as surprised as he should be—he was, if he'll be honest, kind of a slut in his twenties. Thanks to good PR and a surprising amount of discretion on his own part, most people aren't aware that his list of partners includes men as well.

“That the worst thing I did?” Adam asks, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that he isn't joking around, he's genuinely asking.

“So far as I know. Jesse called me.”

“Why?”

“I'm still your number one speed dial, apparently,” Blake says with a shrug, and Adam huffs a breath. He'll have to change that. “Adam--”

“I'm fine,” he interrupts, not wanting to hear whatever it is that's going to come out of Blake's mouth. “You don't have to stay.”

“We should talk.”

“There's nothing to say, Blake,” he says bluntly. “It is what it is—what happened, _happened_.” Adam shrugs. “If you want to help me, Blake, then—please, just, leave. Okay? I can't—I can't see you right now.” He finally makes eye contact with Blake, and—he wants to crawl in a hole and curl up and die because Blake looks like shit, he looks so hurt and--“ _Please,_ Blake.” He doesn't know what he's asking for, because just as much as he needs Blake to leave, to let him be by himself, he wants, _needs_ Blake to stay, to—to--

He doesn't get to finish his thought, because the next second Blake's pressing him up against the counter, crowding Adam's smaller body with his larger one, and one of his huge hands is on Adam's shoulder, the other on his hip, and he's pressing—crushing, actually—his lips to Adam's. It's a rough kiss, lacking any tenderness and filled with possession, and Adam whimpers, can't help but open his mouth--

Then Blake is pulling back, just far enough to growl into Adam's ear, “You have no idea how I felt last night, Adam, when Jesse called, tellin' me you were about to bend over for some stranger--” A small, fairly pathetic sound comes out of his mouth, and Blake kisses him again, nipping at his bottom lip--

Adam pushes him away, shaking his head, eyes pressed shut, trying not to cry. “Blake, _stop_ \--”

“I _can't_ , Adam, you make me--”

Adam pushes past him and runs.

* * *

 

He's back to laying in his bed, the next two days. He can't get the kiss out of his head, and the memories it sparked—he remembers little things, now, little snapshots of feeling and pictures of _that night_ , and he can't stand it—worse than not knowing, apparently, not remembering, is knowing and not being able to _have_.

One of his brothers finally shows up, telling him how worried he and their mother are about him, ripping him a new one for not calling or even texting them. Adam nods and apologizes when it's appropriate.

Michael frowns at him, and finally asks, “Are you sick?”

“Something like that,” Adam says. He doesn't tell Michael about Bee because he doesn't want their mother to know, not yet—not until it's final, which, okay, it is in his head, but not on paper, not yet.

“Adam,” his brother breaks off and sighs. “I know you said it didn't help after Mom and Dad split, but—you might want to talk to somebody.” He promises to think about it to get Michael to leave, then turns over and goes back to sleep.

* * *

 

When Carson calls in the middle of January, Adam actually answers. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is rough because he hasn't been speaking. At all. He's texted Christina, because otherwise she would just show up at his door again like she did last time, but—since Michael, he hasn't said a word to anyone, hasn't even opened his mouth to sing.

“Adam!” Carson's voice is too loud, too chipper to be natural, and Adam's momentarily grateful that he ran out of alcohol because being hungover for this conversation would be torture. “What's up, man?”

“Not much,” he says, because there's no polite way to say “I slept with my co-star, so I'm going to hate coming back to the show you host, and oh, yeah, I drove my wife to leave me.”

“Okay,” Carson says lamely, and there's an awkward pause. Adam waits for him to get to the point. “I just wanted to remind you that we're going to start filming next week.”

“I know,” Adam says, because he does. It's one of the only things on his mind these days—he thinks about going back to that chair, seeing Blake every day, or at least four or five out of seven, and—well. There's a reason he's barely been out of bed for days on end. “I'll be there.”

“Good,” Carson says. “That's good.”

“Yeah.”

“Adam, are you—are you okay? Is everything alright?” Carson asks. “Christina told me that you were having some personal issues, but—I just want you to know that I'm here. If you want to talk.”

Refusing to allow himself to think about it, he blurts out, “I slept with Blake.”

Another one of those awkward, too-long pauses that people have been doing when he talks to them lately, and then Carson says, “Oh. I—thought you were. Already. Since, like, season 2, at least.” Adam laughs, slightly hysterical.

“So did Behati,” he says. “It's—I told her, and it was, like, this huge confession, right? And she did exactly what you did—she acted like it was the most obvious fucking fact on the face of earth, which—that was fucking _frustrating_ , but fine, okay, she wasn't mad at me, that's great, right?”

“Yeah,” Carson agrees, voice a little strained, but leading him on.

“She still left,” he continues. “Not because of Blake—it's—I was upset. Fucking _obviously_ , right? I mean, I just wrecked things with my best friend, so, yeah, I'm allowed to be a little upset, right? She said I was drinking too much, and—I don't know, right now, if it was the drinking that made her leave or the—or if it was how I love Blake more than her.”

“Jesus, Adam,” Carson says. “That's—are you okay?”

“I'm better,” he says, and it's honest, now.

“And—are you drinking still?”

“No,” Adam answers, “I stopped about a week ago.” He doesn't mention that he stopped because he ran out of liquor and couldn't get himself presentable to get to the store to get more, not when he runs the risk of getting photographed by paparazzi every time he so much as walks out his front door.

“That's good,” Carson repeats, sounding relieved. “Are you going to be okay doing the show? Seeing Blake? We can—we can work something out, if you aren't. We'll find a way to film it—so that you don't have to see each other much. We'll figure it out.”

“It'll be fine,” Adam says, lying for the first time this conversation. “I think he gets, now, that I—need some space. It'll be okay.”

“Sure,” Carson says. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, I'm—it's fine. Thanks, though.”

“Have you been eating? I know that's the first thing to go for you when you get stressed,” Carson asks, ignoring Adam's answer, and he scowls, realizing that no matter what he says, Carson's going to be showing up at his door soon.

“Yes, Mom,” Adam says, rolling his eyes despite the fact that Carson can't see it. This, too, is a lie. He knows that Carson knows it, though, so it's—it's not as bad.

“I'll bring Mexican,” Carson says, voice back to his usual chipper tones.

* * *

 

After Carson's visit, Adam feels almost normal, almost human again. He starts to fall back into his usual routine: morning yoga, walking the dogs, messing around on whatever instrument calls to him, trying to write _something_.

He calls Christina, lets her know that his head's on a little straighter and that he's grateful to her for pulling him back to the world of the living. She tells him again how sorry she is about his wife, but also how excited she is to “come home” for season eight. Adam surprises himself by meaning it when he tells her that he's also looking forward to seeing her.

He invites the band out for dinner—no drinks—and thanks them, too, for putting up with him, and apologizes for how... shitty he's been, for lack of a better word, and they tell him how glad they are that he's better, now. It feels good— _he_ doesn't feel good, but he isn't quite so bitter.

He calls his mother, which is a nightmare, and tells her about Behati. “I don't think she's coming back,” he says.

She's sorry, he can tell, because she saw how much they care about each other and she can tell that he's devastated (although, still, not by that, which makes him feel like a terrible fucking person), but she ends the call by saying, “I thought this might happen. All the time you two spent away from each other was bound to add up. I'm so sorry, sweetie.”

Adam's stomach churns, but he thanks her for loving him always, supporting him, and hangs up. He still doesn't feel good, but almost—normal. It's enough, for now.


	2. like animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon who prompted me in a comment on another fic. Prompt: "'Adam's afraid of an animal and Blake thinks it's really silly, but then he realises that he's actually terrified. Fluffy hurt/comfort ensues!'"
> 
> Sorry, this is pretty crappy and a little cracktastic.

The other three coaches had already arrived by the time Adam gets there, Christina and Blake and CeeLo standing together in one corner of the meeting room where they were going to go over the run-down for season 3, Carson talking to Mark and a few of the other producers they never saw except at this super official first meeting of the season. Adam came bouncing in the doorway, an apology on his lips for being late (although he'd caught on after the second meeting they had that they always gave him an earlier time than everyone else because they knew he was going to be late, the sneaky little shits), and then--

Adam stopped dead just inside the doorway, eyes wide, staring mutely at his friends.

“Hey, Rockstar,” Blake drawls, “you just gonna stand there, or you gonna come in and join us? I know you're late, but we've gotten used to it.”

“Eeeee--” A squeak is all that makes it out of Adam's mouth, and everyone goes quiet before the brief silence is broken by a loud guffaw from Blake and a high, cheerful giggle from Christina. Out of the corner of his eye (Adam hasn't been able to turn his gaze away, yet), Adam sees Carson and Mark turn towards them.

“I think you're gonna have to sign a new coach, Mark,” Blake says. “Looks like this one's broken.” There's laughter sounding from all around him at the jab, and maybe Adam would think it was funny if he weren't so terrified.

It takes a bit, but Blake seems to realize after several (long, excruciating, torturous) seconds that Adam is Not Okay. As everyone else turns back to their own conversations (although Mark and Carson keep half a wary eye on him, Adam can tell), Blake approaches him slowly and slings an arm over his shoulders casually, drawing a still-stiff Adam to him. Christina gives them a fond smirk before continuing whatever conversation she's having with CeeLo.

“You okay?” Blake murmurs in Adam's ear, sounding genuinely concerned, and he frowns, because now that he's this close to Adam, he can feel the smaller man's heart racing in his chest. “Adam?”

“I don't--” His voice comes out higher than he'd like, higher than he'd intended, and Adam clears his throat, still incapable of tearing his gaze away. “I really don't like—”

“What?” Blake asks, and Adam mumbles something. “I didn't catch that.”

“Birds,” Adam answers slowly, clearly, voice pitched low enough that no one else can hear them. “I _really_ don't like birds.”

There's another one of those pauses that make Adam even more tense, anticipating what might happen, and then Blake is shaking, practically vibrating, his grip on Adam tightening, and Adam flushes head to toe becaues Blake is fucking _laughing at him_.

“I'm sorry,” Blake says after a series of those booming Santa Claus chortles, and he really doesn't _sound_ sorry, and Adam is nearly pouting through his fear, “but are you serious? You're freaked 'cause of _Lady_?”

“That _thing_ has a name?”

“'Course she does,” Blake says. “She's CeeLo's new mascot.”

“What happened to Purrfect?” Adam asks. He's still wide-eyed, breathing a little too quick, too shallow, his heartbeat too rapid like a rabbit's, but Blake's chest pressed against his back is helping.

“CeeLo said she's gettin' old—not sick or anythin', just tired, so he's been leavin' her home with the rest of his zoo,” Blake tells him, and Adam nods jerkily, still staring intently at the _bird_. “You're really freaked, aren't ya?” His tone is teasing, but a little concerned, and Adam nods again. “C'mon.”

Blake pulls him over to the conference table and sits down, tugging Adam until he's sitting down on Blake's lap. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Adam grins at him—now that he's not _looking_ at CeeLo and his fucking _bird_ , it's... better.

* * *

 Unfortunately, “ _Lady_ ” becomes a fixture on set for season 3. CeeLo seems to get that Adam isn't exactly... happy with her being around, and takes time to talk to him without her presence. He's so considerate about it that Adam almost feels bad, and CeeLo never questions why Adam doesn't want to be around her (and no, Blake, he doesn't fucking _know_ , okay, he just doesn't like birds, he never has), just makes sure that Lady is left in his trailer or hanging out with Christina or one of the camera men when he and Adam start chatting.

Adam almost gets comfortable, _almost_ , and then--

They're a few weeks into filming, and Adam's headed back to his trailer to grab his lunch before meeting back up with his fellow coaches, and he opens the door and--

He scrambles, flailing a little and falling to the floor, curling himself into a ball, trying to become as small as possible, pressing himself against the wall and crushing his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them, trying not to hyperventilate and failing fairly miserably because _Lady is on his couch_.

And she's not doing anything (which is freaky in itself, she's just sitting there on the arm of the couch doing fuck all, just staring at him calmly with those beady little eyes), just sitting there, unnaturally still until she twitches every now and then, cocking her head slightly every now and again in that way that's all too bird-like, and Adam doesn't think he'll ever be able to move again.

The bird squawks, and says, “ _CeeLo_!” and Adam fucking whimpers, and this is so damn _pathetic_ , being scared of a goddamn pink cockatoo, but he can't help it, can't stop the unease that coils in his stomach and blooms into fear whenever he sees that _goddamn bird_ \--

The door opens, and Blake is standing there, and Adam is so relieved that tears spring to his eyes. Blake just frowns at him.

“I—damn it,” Blake says, looking at Adam intently for a long, drawn-out moment, and then he heads over and holds his arm out to Lady who climbs onto him easily, and Adam wants to scream at him _no_ , that he shouldn't touch it, but he also knows that Blake is going to take the bird out of his trailer (“ _and how did it get in there in the first place?_ ” he wonders vaguely), so he keeps quiet, just waits until Blake's gone to close his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

He hears the door again, an eternity (probably just a few minutes, really) later. “Adam?” Blake is back, and Adam feels a hand on his knee. His eyes fly open, still a little wild, still a little panicked, and Blake is right there. He launches himself at his friend, knocking him over, both of them on the floor of his trailer, Adam clinging to him and Blake's arms wrapped around him tightly.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Blake is murmuring, peppering his face and hair with quick little kisses. Adam lets his friend's voice wash over him, waiting until his breathing calms and his heart stops feeling like it's going to burst right fucking out of his chest to draw back a little so that he can look at Blake.

Blake, who looks—guilty, who'd been apologizing just moments before. Adam frowns.

“What?”

“I thought--” Blake runs one hand through Adam's hair, and he leans into the touch instinctively. “I thought it'd be funny. Y'know, like a prank.”

Adam stills, pulling away again. “What?” he repeats.

“I'm sorry,” Blake repeats, and Adam can see how sorry he is, regret clear in his eyes. “I was just—messin' around. I didn't think you'd get that upset about it. I was waitin' outside, hopin' I'd hear you scream like a girl, y'know, the way you did when I put that Chucky doll in here last Halloween 'cause you hate scary movies, and—I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd actually be that _scared_.”

Adam is torn, then, between being mad at Blake because that's _such_ a dick thing to do, and leaning back into him for comfort, because Blake's right—he _was_ scared. Blake looks so contrite, though, that Adam can't stay mad, and he melts back down into Blake.

“S'okay,” he says. “I just—not again, alright? I _really_ don't like birds.”

“Okay, okay,” Blake murmurs, rubbing one of those large hands of his over Adam's back soothingly. “Not again. I promise.”

* * *

 “Please, Adam, just _try_.”

“No, Blake,” Adam says, voice hushed, for what feels like the millionth time. They're sitting in Blake's chair together during one of their brief breaks, too short to leave the stage, but long enough that they'd started to get antsy. And when CeeLo brought out Lady, that's when Adam had walked over to Blake for comfort and settled himself in his friend's lap.

“She's not that bad, once you get used to her,” Blake tells him. “She's actually kinda fun.”

“I really don't like birds.”

“I _know_ , Adam, but you're never gonna get over your fear if you don't face it,” Blake says, just as persistent and patient as he has been every other time they've had this exact same conversation. “It's just like when you first started singin', and you had to do it with your back turned to the audience, right? Just start small. Go stand by CeeLo or somethin'--you don't have to touch Lady, just get close to her.”

Adam shakes his head stubbornly, and Blake sighs, squeezing his arms around Adam. “She's not goin' anywhere, Adam. You're gonna have to get used to her.”

“No.”

“Adam--”

“Not today,” Adam finally caves, and Blake stops, then beams at him.

“I'll take it,” he declares, and plants a kiss on the corner of Adam's mouth. Adam feels his stomach flutter, and screws up his face, pulling away from Blake.

“ _Ew_ ,” Adam groans, wiping his cheek for emphasis, “you're so _gross_.” The audience laughs, and Christina's laughing with them, and Carson and CeeLo are giving them fond looks, but Adam knows that Blake doesn't miss the _look_ that he gives him when he gets back to his own red chair.

* * *

 Adam waits a week, and then he approaches CeeLo when he has Lady on his shoulder during a break. He stands a good two feet away, tense, ready to bolt the instant Lady so much as preens, but he's doing it, he's not running away, even though his heart feels like it's going to explode, it's beating that quick.

CeeLo's making conversation with him (or, y'know, talking at him, because he seems to get that Adam wants his attention but isn't up to saying anything intelligent), and Adam is struggling to look at his friend and not his friend's goddamn bird, when he feels Blake pulling him back. He melts gratefully into Blake's chest, his bigger friend's arms going around his middle, squeezing gently.

Blake takes over the conversation, and he and CeeLo are talking about next week's performances, talking about which songs they might want their artists to sing, and Adam lets their words wash over him, takes a deep breath, and looks at the bird. For a moment, she's so still that Adam can pretend she isn't even real, can pretend that she isn't a threat (which, okay, she's really not—Adam's read up on cockatoos, and he knows she isn't, but something deep in the pit of his stomach insists that _she is_ ), and this really isn't so bad--

And then Lady twists her head in that unnatural, too-far kind of a way that implies a broken neck and Adam jumps, nearly knocking Blake off-balance, and he cries out--

The audience is laughing at him, and Adam feels himself turning red. Conceding defeat, Adam turns around, burying his face in Blake's shoulder. Blake, for his part, just rubs Adam's back in those calming circles, then leans down to whisper in his ear, “That was a great start, Adam. Just give it some time.”

 _Fuck no_ , Adam thinks, _I'm never going near that **thing** again_.

* * *

All too predictably, Adam _does_ go near Lady again. And, yeah, okay, it's really only because of Blake's encouragement and the way his friend doesn't even try to restrain himself from comforting Adam, putting his hands and his lips everywhere, and Adam is leaning against CeeLo's chair, Lady on CeeLo's far shoulder, and he's saying something, doesn't even hear the words coming out of his mouth, but it's for a bit that the producers wanted to film about the bird and what they all think about it, and Adam--

He makes it through, just barely. He doesn't freak out, doesn't hyperventilate on camera, doesn't even think about that awful Alfred Hitchcock movie. He smiles for the camera, and, watching Lady snuggle into CeeLo's chest, it's actually... kind of cute.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “I officially like the bird.”

And that's a lie, he doesn't _like_ the bird, not yet, but the smile CeeLo gives him makes it almost worth it.

What really does it, though, what tips the scales for Adam, is the kiss that Blake gives him, tender and sweet and happy, off-camera, after he's said it. Blake's never kissed him before, not really, not _like that_ , and when his lips are pressed against Adam's, soft but insistent, questioning, _loving_ , all Adam can think is a giddy _alright, I guess the damn bird's not so bad_.

 


	3. baby, there you go again (making me love you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to Chapter 1, due to popular demand.
> 
> It's also my first attempt (literally, my very first) at explicit...ish smut, so be kind, please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something else to keep in mind: because this was originally the idea for "All I Want," a lot of the key moments I use for that story are repeated here. You'll see some overlap in this chapter.

They start filming, and Adam knows he's not on his game.

He gets through the morning okay, without seeing Blake at all. Carson comes to see him, Christina right behind him, while he's in makeup.

“Hey,” Carson says, voice cautious. “How are you?”

He actually takes a moment to think before answering. “I'm getting there.” The smile Christina gives him is encouraging and sweet, and even through the “diva” attitude and the claws that come out during filming, she's one of the most sincere and caring people he knows.

“Good,” Carson says, and he darts a quick, furtive look at Christina, wondering if she knows what really happened, wondering what he can say. He clears his throat. “Have you seen Blake yet?”

Adam shakes his head slowly, tries to sound unconcerned. “Nope.”

“Ah,” Carson says, “okay. He's in his trailer. Y'know. If you were looking for him.” Adam glares at him through his reflection in the mirror, _nice, man, real subtle_ , he thinks at him, but puts on a smile.

“Yeah, sure,” he says breezily. “Thanks. I'll see you guys out there, okay?”

* * *

 

Once he's out there—that's when everything goes to shit. Pharrell is too nice, too quiet, Christina is too oblivious, and neither of them makes a good buffer between Adam and Blake.

And Blake... Blake is being downright fucking _mean_. And yeah, sure, Adam gets that he probably deserves the spiteful jabs (“You're the biggest screw-up there is,” “You don't fit into this anywhere”), but it still fucking _hurts_. He'd hoped that he could have an uneventful season, focusing on his team, focusing on the contestants and the artistry and the music and having fun, and then bow out gracefully, letting everyone know he isn't coming back for another season (not if it means he's going to have to see Blake every fucking day, not if it means getting his heart ripped out of his chest repeatedly every time he sees his... well, he doesn't even know if he gets to call Blake his best friend anymore, and _that_ is probably the worst feeling in the world).

Adam goes home alone as soon as filming wraps every night, because he's in no mood to party with Christina or get drinks with Carson or Pharrell or even fucking look at Blake fucking Shelton. So he goes home to his empty house and goes to bed early when he feels like drinking, because he's trying really, _really_ hard to stay sober because he knows the road he could so very easily wander down with that and doesn't need that extra problem on his plate. Otherwise, he writes, and texts his new team members, and sits at the piano or on the couch playing his guitar, does his yoga, cleans.

By the end of the first week of filming, though, he's ready to quit the show, contract or not.

“You're the only artist I've ever met that I hope changes one day. Like, you started out a fucker, and maybe now, you'll turn into a good guy.”

The whole goddamn week had been hard—hell, the last few _months_ had been hard—but Blake saying that to him? That was the last fucking straw.

He gets home raging mad and paces up and down the hall, around the kitchen, around the living room, until he can't take it anymore and goes back out to his car to retrieve the bottle of tequila he'd picked up on the way home.

Three shots in and he's still pissed, only now, he thinks it's a good idea to call his lawyer. He doesn't pick up, and Adam leaves a message: “I don't fucking care, I just need out of the fucking contract. Call me back. Let me know how much I have to fucking pay or what, just—I need to get the fuck out of there.”

When that doesn't make him feel any better, Adam takes another two shots and resumes pacing. The edges of the world are sliding around pleasantly in his drunkenness, and Adam knows he's freaking his dogs out, with them wandering behind him while he ambles aimlessly around his house, trying to resist the lingering urges to punch the fucking drywall because he's never been a violent person and he doesn't want to start that now, and--

His phone goes off, and Adam answers without looking to see who it is because he honestly doesn't fucking care, he'll scream at whoever.

Conveniently, it's Blake.

“Hey,” he drawls, and Adam stops dead, practically vibrating with rage. He doesn't say anything back because he's too shaken, too angry even for words because after all of it, what Blake chooses to say at him in his innocent-as-the-day-he-was-born country twang is “ _hey_?” “Adam?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Adam means to say, but he's so plastered that it sounds more like “th' fuck ya wan'?” and Blake is silent for a long moment.

“Are you alright?”

“What do you fucking want?” Adam repeats, careful to enunciate this time, clenching and unclenching his fist slowly, heading for the bedroom so that he can lay down, because the world has started to spin a little and he wants to be lying down before he gets the chance to fall down.

“Carson called me a few hours ago,” Blake begins slowly, “and—he kinda... called me out on some shit I said today. And... he was right. I was bein' an asshole.”

“You think?” Adam spits furiously, throwing himself down onto the bed (not because he's dramatic, honestly, just because he's drunk and literally couldn't keep his feet under him another fucking second).

“Look, I'm callin' to apologize, okay?” Blake tells him. “I really—I didn't mean what I said today. I've just been... upset, lately.”

“No shit.”

“You're not helpin' very much,” Blake grumbles.

“Not trying to.”

“Adam, would you just listen to me for a fuckin' _minute_ , please?” Blake snaps, and Adam huffs, but remains silent, waiting. “Thank you. I'm... I've been feelin' kinda... I've been mean to ya, I get that, and I'm real sorry about it, but I can't _stop_ , 'cause—you hurt me, Adam.”

“ _I_ hurt you?”

“You're damn right,” Blake says, and Adam's hand wraps tightly around the headboard because otherwise he'd be jumping up to put his fist through the drywall the way he's been trying not to. “That night—the morning after, when I woke up and you were just gone? I figured yeah, okay, we'd just get over it, wouldn't have to talk about it, but then you stop takin' my calls, stop—everything. And when you said you wish you'd've never _met me_? Fuckin' _Christ_ , Adam, you ripped my fuckin' _heart out_ \--”

“You really never thought, before fucking me, that it could end this way?” Adam snaps. “Can you honestly tell me that you never thought we might lose _everything_?”

“Never. I _never_ thought that, because no matter how much I want you--” Blake's voice hitches at that, and he has to pause to clear his throat before he can continue. “--no matter how much I want you in my bed, here for me to come home to every day, I want you in my life more. However I can get you. And I thought—I'd always thought you felt the same, that we were good enough friends for somethin' like this not to break us the way it has.”

Adam is silent for a long moment because he doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know what to think about it. “I don't know what you want from me, Blake.”

“I just—if I can't have anythin' else, I want my goddamn _friend back_ because I miss you.”

“I—I really miss you too,” Adam admits slowly, the anger going out of him suddenly. It isn't Blake's fault, after all—not entirely, anyway, because it takes two people to have an affair. This mess is on him just as much as Blake, in the end, and he's been punishing his friend _and_ himself so unfairly.

“So, can we try it?” Blake asks, and it almost sounds like he's begging a little bit—but then, Adam is very drunk, so that's probably just wishful thinking on his part. “Can we just be friends again?”

“I—yeah,” Adam agrees slowly. “Fuck. I really miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Let's do it,” Adam decides. “Let's try.”

* * *

 

It's a relief and a burden in equal turns, being close to Blake again. Adam goes back to needling Blake, to teasing him and walking over to his chair to bug him. They don't hug anymore, though, and Adam sure as hell doesn't sit in his lap—even the simple nudges, even Blake's hand on his shoulder or arm, those touches burn like fire, hurt like hell, and Adam knows he wouldn't be able to survive being that close to Blake again.

The next few weeks are... awkward, but bearable. They're too careful or too mean, incapable of finding that middle ground they used to walk between teasing and affectionate, the weight of knowledge and feeling between them too great.

And then Carson asks a fucking question about Shevine and Luke fucking Bryan, and Adam wants to scream at him to shut the fuck up, but they're live on national television with no prior fucking _warning_ and one of them has to answer and Blake is just staring at Carson, a little blank but mostly irritated, and it's going to be up to Adam to salvage this, so he dives in head first.

“What me and Blake have is special, Carson,” Adam tells him, forcing a smile onto his face, forcing himself to look at the camera or up at Carson in the Skybox, not at Pharrell, not at Christina, not at the audience, and sure as _hell_ not at Blake. He keeps babbling, only half-hearing what he's saying, and when he shuts up, when he stops long enough to hear Blake say “this is the stupidest conversation,” he thinks he's going to break down and scream or cry or hit something right fucking then, and Blake fiddles with his _fucking_ wedding ring again, and Adam can't take it. Something's going to break, something's gotta give.

He heads over to Blake's chair before he can think about it and gets a hug from him, brief but so hard to endure, each of Blake's hands firmly on his back, the touch nearly enough to make him cry right then—and then he's back to his own chair.

But not for long, because now that he's had Blake's arms around him again, now that he's given in even just that small bit, he can't seem to stop.

When they're ready to break for commercials, Adam heads over to Blake and stares down at him for only a second before turning and settling himself unceremoniously into Blake's lap. Immediately, one of Blake's arms is around his shoulders, helping Adam lean back into him, and the other is resting on his leg.

Blake's expression is still... blank, still irritated, and it's so hard to tell what's underneath, but he isn't telling Adam to go the fuck away, hasn't done anything but welcome him the way he used to, the way he always had since this weirdness between them started to develop.

When everyone's calmed, attention no longer on them, and they're on break, Blake leans into him and murmurs, “Took you long enough. Been missin' this.”

Adam shakes his head minutely, then closes his eyes so that he doesn't cry. “Please, don't. I'm not... not yet, okay?”

“Okay,” Blake agrees easily. “Just glad to have you back.”

He slides off Blake's lap so quick it's almost as if he'd been burned.

* * *

 

That night, after the show, Adam finishes off his bottle of tequila, getting just as shitfaced as he had the other night. His lawyer never called him back, apparently choosing to tactfully ignore Adam's drunken demands, which is probably for the best. He gets now that no matter how much it hurts, he'll keep going back, keep seeking out Blake, keep on wanting him in spite of himself.

So that night, he gets drunk again, taking shot after shot until he's slurring his words and leaning against his bed because he couldn't get in it, he's just that far gone, and he dials Blake before he can let himself think about it.

“Hey, Adam!” Blake booms, too happy to be natural, and Adam huffs because he doesn't like that Blake doesn't sound like himself. “What's goin' on?”

“Heeey,” he slurs, then frowns at his own voice and clears his throat. “I was thinkin'.”

“Dangerous,” Blake murmurs, and Adam barks a laugh—a little too loud, a little too jarring, but even this semblance of Blake's former teasing is welcome. “'Bout what, Rockstar?” And Adam feels so warm, so content, hearing that affectionate nickname from his friend (and they are friends, he's convinced now, even though things are fucked up, they'll always be friends).

“Yoooou,” he says. “Me. Us.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeeeah. I wanted to punch Luke, today. Didn' like Carson sayin' that shit.”

“Adam--” Blake sounds torn between laughing and crying. “You know Luke and I are just friends, right?”

“Yeeeeah. 'Course I do. I'm just jealous 'cause you're all— _normal_ with him, and we're so fucked. 'Cause we fucked. Get it? _Haaa_.”

“Adam,” Blake sighs. “I'm tryin', I really am, but you're so--”

“Fucked in the head?”

“I was gonna say 'distant,'” Blake tells him slowly, and Adam can hear the scowl in his voice at Adam's own phrasing. “I want things to be normal, if they can't be any other way.”

Adam thinks on that for a long moment, then focuses on his fingertips, waiting to feel that tingle, wanting to see how drunk he is, how willing he's going to be to tempt fate, if he's got enough liquid courage in him for this. He licks his lips. “How else would you wan' it t'be?”

There's a silence so long that Adam almost thinks Blake hung up on him, but he can still faintly hear the other man's breath. “It felt like everything I ever wanted, everything I'd ever hoped for, when I got you into bed that night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” There's another drawn-out pause, and Adam doesn't know what to say. “You said you blacked out. You really don't remember?”

“Not really. Not most of it.”

“What do you remember?” _The morning after, when I remembered that we're both fucking married_ , Adam thinks doesn't say.

“I remember... we were on your couch, playin' a drinkin' game with... some movie?”

“Yeah.”

“You'd bought nice tequila f'r me, jus' f'r me, 'cause you hate it and I like it,” Adam says. “Tequila is my friend.”

Blake laughs at him. “I know.”

“Yeah. An' then—you kissed me first.”

“You were sittin' in my lap, grindin' up against me,” Blake protests. “I think I had a right.”

“Not like I was complaining. And—you were... you fuckin' carried me to bed, didn' you?”

“Yeah,” Blake confirms, his voice strained, and Adam frowns, trying to place the tone of his voice, too drunk to immediately pin down whatever it is Blake's feeling.

“I don' really remember more'n that,” Adam admits. “Too much tequila.”

“I know.”

“Will you—tell me?” Adam asks slowly. “I wanna remember.”

“I—yeah. If that's what you want.”

“Yeah.”

“You were so—we were on the couch longer'n you remember, I think,” Blake starts, “'cause by the time I finally got you into bed, you already looked _wrecked_. Your hair was a mess, an' your lips were all red, and you looked at me like—there wasn't anything else in the damn world.

“You were—I sucked you off, first. You acted surprised, like you thought I'd've never given a blowjob before.” Adam laughs, a little breathless, closing his eyes, trying to picture it. “The face you made, when you came that first time—I ain't ever gonna forget that. It was damn _perfect_ , the way you looked at me, like you were losin' your damn mind. The only thing better I can think of, now, is the way you looked when I was first inside you.”

Adam makes a noise, then, over the phone, something between a whimper and a groan, and he palms himself through his too-tight jeans, already starting to get hard. Blake growls, low and deep, and Adam's breath hitches as he draws his cock out of his pants.

“You like it rougher than I'd've thought,” Blake says, and Adam gets, now, that that strain in his voice is arousal, and his hand starts to move up and down, stroking himself into full hardness. “Somehow, I always pictured that you'd like it sweet 'n' slow, tender, with deep kisses, but—no, I tried that, and you nearly made yourself breathless, beggin' for it harder 'n' faster, and you damn near screamed when I bit you, gave you that hickey--”

Unthinking, Adam tilts his head to the side, feeling the phantom ache of Blake's teeth, his lip sucking at the sensitive skin there, and he gasps a breath. When he starts talking again, Blake's voice is even rougher than before.

“You were so fucking _desperate_ , Adam, it was—intoxicatin'. So damn hot, the way you kept sayin' my name, scratchin' at me, pullin' my hair when I hit just the right spot deep in you--

“I didn' think you'd come again, but I flipped us over, when I felt like my arms were gonna give out, made you ride me, and you put my hands on your hips, and I probably bruised 'em, but you liked it, just begged for more--”

Adam can almost picture it, can almost feel Blake inside him, hard and hot and heavy, thrusting and fucking into him like it was the only thing he ever wanted, and he moans loudly into the phone, eyes still shut tight, his hand flying over his dick, pausing only for his thumb to flick over the leaking head--

“When you came, that second time, it was fuckin' filthly, so damn hot, all over your hand, all over my chest, and even though it must've hurt, sensitive as you had to've been, you just kept jerkin' it, askin' me to come for you, and you really _did_ scream when I finally came--”

“ _Aaah,_ ” Adam cries out, voice breaking, as he spills come onto his hand, and Blake stops talking but doesn't go quiet, panting softly into the phone until he, too, groans (and Adam thinks he hears his name, but again, he's drunk, it's probably just his imagination), and Adam whimpers at the thought that Blake, too, had been getting himself off to the description of their fucking, the memory of being inside him.

They're silent for a long time, a few minutes, maybe, letting their breathing settle, coming down from the high of their orgasms, “Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember now?”

“More of it,” Adam says. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Blake says, sounding sad and worried and a million other mixed emotions that Adam can't identify warring in his voice. “I'll... see you. Tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“You should go to bed,” Blake says, sounding tired, sounding weary, in a way that Adam knows sleep can't cure.

“Yeah,” Adam just repeats because he doesn't know what else to say. He opens his eyes slowly, coming to terms with the fact that he's alone in his bedroom, not in Blake's bed. “Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Adam.”

Blake hangs up on him.


	4. (yeah baby give me one more night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow up to the previous chapter, and the conclusion of this story arc.
> 
> Also, this is my second attempt at smut. Eek.

Unfortunately, Adam actually remembers _that_ phone call when he wakes up the next morning beside his bed instead of in it, head pillowed on Bones' body, Charlie curled against his back. He blinks blearily at the too-bright morning (seriously, these hangovers are _killing him_ , and it's a harsh reminder that he's not a twenty-two year old kid anymore), then stares down for a long moment at the cell phone he's still clutching in one hand, and he sits up, and in one fluid motion, throws the phone at the wall.

(And he's a little impressed, in a distant sort of a way, that it actually gets stuck in the drywall instead of bouncing off the wall or something—he must be stronger than he thought.)

The dogs are barking and his head is pounding, and he sighs loudly, scrubbing at his eyes and then stands, going to see the damage he's done to his phone and the wall.

Broken, on both counts. Awesome. This is gonna be a _great_ day.

* * *

 

Three hours later, when Adam's got a replacement and he's finished giving out autographs at the store, the new phone starts going off like crazy the instant he turns it on, sitting in his baking hot car in the parking lot. Thankfully, it's Carson and not someone else.

“Adam, why the hell haven't you been answering? Everyone's at the studio in a tizzy because they can't find you,” Carson asks, his voice a mixture of concern, irritation, and nerves that Adam finds exhausting.

“Had to get a new phone,” he explains wearily, “since mine broke early this morning. And who the fuck says 'in a tizzy?'”

“Oh,” Carson says, and he seems slightly appeased. “Get your ass to the studio, then.”

“It's Wednesday, what're we filming?”

There's a long pause. “The Confessionals?” Carson says. “Did you—were you listening to the run-down at all this week?”

No, honestly, he hadn't been. The call times for the studio were always the fucking same, and so Adam had been focused on not making eye contact with Blake who seemed desperate for his attention instead of listening to Carson and the set manager.

“Sure,” Adam says. “It was just—a weird night last night. Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Carson asks, and his voice is so earnest, so concerned, that Adam almost laughs at the way his friend seems so bi-polar, oscillating readily between anger and concern.

“Yeah, I think, I just—it's Blake's fault, and mine, too, probably, that's all. Just the same old weirdness.”

“You two really haven't been the same since—then,” Carson says carefully, and Adam hears chatter in the background before a door thumps shut and Carson's voice is all he hears. “Did you two... sleep together again?”

“Nah,” Adam says, “it was just—phone sex, I guess?”

“Christ,” Carson sighs. “Why—why did this make things so weird with you two? Honestly, it's—you guys were obviously building up to it. It really shouldn't have been this hard for you two.” _He was plenty hard last night, trust me_ , Adam thinks, and snickers quietly at his own joke. “Adam? I'm just trying to help.”

“I know, I just—I'm still married, you know? And I wasn't thinking about her, didn't _care_ about her, when I—went home with Blake that night, and that was pretty fucking awful of me,” Adam rambles, “but—and this drives me so fucking crazy—he never even seemed to _care_ about Miranda, and that's just as bad—except, no, you know what? It's fucking _worse_ because even though I felt awful about what I did, he's the one who got away with it.”

“Fuck,” Carson says, “are you _kidding me_?”

“What?” Adam asks, frowning.

“I mean, yes, it's sad that you and Behati split, but _Miranda_ is what's gotten between you two?”

“Yes, and no. It's complicated.”

“Try to explain it to me, please.” Adam's frown deepens, his brow furrowing, because he can tell from Carson's tone of voice that he's trying to figure something out, put clues together, but Adam can't for the life of him figure out what it might be, because cheating is cheating, that part is pretty fucking simple.

“It was super shitty of _both_ of us to cheat, okay? And then, I mean, not to be judgmental or anything, but Blake's marriage was so much shittier than mine ever was, but mine is the one that ended? That fucking sucks. And then—I don't know. It was like—I didn't want to be some dirty little secret, the 'other fucking man' or any of that bullshit, especially not for the guy who used to be my best friend. _Is_ my best friend. I don't know. It's just—this all... sucks.”

There's a pause so long that Adam actually pulls the phone away from his face briefly to make sure that the call hasn't dropped, and he's about to prompt Carson when his friend says, “You need to talk to Blake, when you get here.”

“Why?”

“Just—seriously. Tell him everything you told me,” Carson says, and his voice is tinged hard with anger, “because it sounds like there are more than a few things he hasn't told you, and if that's the case, he's been a fucking _dick_.”

“Okay,” Adam agrees slowly, although he can't fathom what on earth Blake might have to say about all of this that could possibly make it better. “Sure. I'll be at the studio in an hour, okay? Sorry for—just, sorry.”

“We'll figure it out,” Carson finally says, voice strained, and he sighs, and Adam can just imagine the pinched look he's sporting. “Seriously, Adam, just—talk to him.”

“Sure, will do. See you later.”

* * *

 

(And even though Adam promised, despite Carson's certainty that actually _talking_ to Blake would magically fix everything that's gone wrong between them, he sees that _fucking_ ring again and—what could he say to make this better? He'd never ask Blake to leave Miranda for him, and the thought of that conversation alone is ridiculous, enough to make Adam giggle to himself just a _touch_ hysterically.

So he smiles and jokes around with Blake like everything is fine although he won't let the Sasquatch touch him, not today, not after the night before, and he can't hold Blake's gaze for long, not with the strange, sad combination of hurt and longing and desire in those blue eyes, and he just gives Carson a vague thumbs up when the host gives him a pointed _look_.)

* * *

 

The finale inches closer, and Adam's apologized to Josh again and again because he feels like his head's just not in the game, but Josh is so humble and happy to be in the top four, happy to be Adam's friend, that Adam feels a little better (and a little worse) about it.

And then Adam hears who's going to be in the finale, and he has to stop himself from breaking his new phone the same way he broke the old one because _Luke fucking Bryan_ is going to be on the show, and it's just— _exhausting_ , whenever he's around, because Adam has to remember the whole _fucking_ time that he's on live television and he's not allowed to glare at Luke, he's not allowed to put his hands all over Blake and claim him and scream at all of them to _back the fuck off_ because Blake is his, and--

(He's not allowed to put his hands all over Blake, period, because Blake _isn't his_ , and it's fucking killing him.)

* * *

 

Part one of the finale comes and goes, and Adam is actually smiling by the end of it because the music and the talent was _amazing_ , and this, _this_ is why he signed onto the show in the first place, and he's genuinely excited about the original song that Joshua crafted. Although, if he's honest, _all_ of the contestants' original songs are ridiculously amazing, and even though he's not their coach, he's so fucking proud of the way they've all grown, the way they all know now how to highlight the unique and engaging parts of their voices.

It's almost enough to force his focus away from Blake (almost), and he gives in, thinks he's okay enough, happy enough, to give in and give Blake one of their signature, too-long, too-tight, too-familiar hugs before they're heading home for the night.

And then he heads into his house and starts unbuttoning his shirt and nearly jumps out of his fucking skin because Miranda _fucking_ Lambert is sitting on his couch.

He doesn't say anything, just stares at her, chest tight and eyes wide, and she's frowning at him thoughtfully. “Hi, Adam.”

“Miiiiiranda!” Adam says, and then flushes bright red at the sound of his own voice, sticking and squeaking on that first vowel of her name, clamping a hand over his mouth. The frown disappears from her face then and she throws her head back and laughs brightly at him, and she's so goddamn _pretty_ like this, and he feels hot jealousy stabbing through him just like fucking _always_ when he thinks about her and what she has and what he doesn't, and--

“I take it you're a little surprised to see me,” she says, tone amused, voice light, and Adam lowers his hand, frowning himself, then, because there's nothing that sounds like anger or accusation in her voice, and maybe she's here for some totally innocent reason that has nothing to do with the way he slept with her husband?

 _Yeah, right_ , Adam thinks, _because this is totally normal, she's totally come to see you before. Get a fucking grip._

He clears his throat, tries again. “Um, hi? How'd you get in here?” She holds up a key that Adam easily recognizes—when he and Blake exchanged keys, that first time, Adam had gone out and got one that had an American flag decal, just because it felt like something a country guy should have.

“Blake's key still works, so you can't hate him that much,” she says, and the statement is flippant, but her eyes have that warning fire that Adam knows all too well means that she could explode at any moment, that he could very well find himself on the wrong end of her shotgun.

“I don't hate him,” Adam rushes to say, and it's true—he feels everything _but_ hate for Blake. In fact, it's kind of the opposite, what emotions the big country Sasquatch conjures up in him, and that's the goddamn problem.

“Sure seems that way from here,” she says. “Let's sit, have a few drinks. You change, I'll make margaritas.”

Adam doesn't argue, doesn't bother double checking to confirm that she remembers where the blender and the tequila are because they used to do this all the time, when it was four of them, two couples, instead of one couple and an odd man out.

He takes his opportunity to escape and decides that if this is how he's going to die, drinking margaritas with his best-friend-turned-one-night-stand's wife (and _fuck_ , when did his life get so goddamn complicated?), then he'd like to at least be comfortable, so he throws on some ratty jeans and a white tee and heads back downstairs to face the music.

Miranda's sipping on one frozen margarita, sprawled out on one end of the couch like some kind of queen, haughty and strong-willed, and Adam almost smiles, because he has always admired her fire, her spirit. They're the same, that way, so stubborn and unwilling to let anything at all be dictated to them.

He sinks down on the other side of the couch slowly, crossing his legs under him and closing his eyes to savor that first sip of his drink because, yeah, Miranda still makes fucking amazing margaritas, and he waits for her to tell him to get the fuck away from her husband. For good.

“You hurt Blake, Adam,” she finally says, voice quiet, but still devoid of any anger, “when you took off without so much as a thank-you-very-much.”

“I— _what_?” Adam cries, almost choking on his drink. “I—he told you?”

“He called me when he woke up and you were gone and your key was under his welcome mat,” Miranda says, and Adam is awestruck by the fact that she's here, on the fact that she doesn't seem like she's angry even though she obviously knows what happened, what he did, and the fact that Blake told her, that it takes him more than a few moments to catch up to what she's saying. “What happened, Adam? You finally got what you wanted from him and that was that?”

“Of course not—just, _no_ ,” Adam protests, and she's so fucking off-base that he's past the shock, now, and onto feeling indignant and a little angry himself. “I fucking left because I woke up the next morning and remembered that oh, hey, yeah, _we're both fucking married_. He's not—I'm not the person he's supposed to wake up with, and I'm—it was too late, by the time we met each other.”

Miranda is silent for a long moment, and Adam squeezes his eyes shut and keeps them that way, taking another gulp of his margarita because he's not nearly drunk enough for this.

“Adam,” she finally says, “ _Adam_.” He opens his eyes, and lets his gaze meet hers. She looks furious, but sad, too, and she shakes her head at him. “You don't have to be so fucking dramatic, you know.”

He laughs, and then finds that he can't stop, because something tells him that if he stops laughing, he's going to start crying, because yeah, he really _does_ feel dramatic, but he can't _stop_ , because each time he thinks about what he _could_ have with Blake and doesn't, can't, it's like—it's like his heart is getting ripped out again and again--

“Adam, shut up,” Miranda says, and somehow, it's gentle and understanding, not at all mean or rude. “I wanna explain somethin' to you.” Adam quiets, finally, still trying to catch his breath, still trying to hold back tears, and he's slamming back that margarita for something to do, something to distract him, something to make this conversation bearable. “Blake's an asshole, because he didn't give you all the facts before the two of you went at it. We'd decided to file for divorce the night before y'all went at it, hon. We're split up, just waitin' for the papers to go through before we announce it.”

“I— _what_?” Adam asks, eyes going wide again, his heart feeling like it's going to stop any moment because this, this was an outcome, a possibility that he'd never imagined. “But—his ring--”

“He decided he was gonna wear it 'til we announce everything. Y'know, just to make sure we don't feed the rumor mill,” she explains, still so gentle and sweet. “We'd rather not have the sharks circlin' until we can't avoid it. He's an asshole for not tellin' you.”

Adam frowns, then. “He... actually might've. I was _really_ wasted when—that night.”

“So he said,” Miranda says drily. “But he also knew that, and should've made sure you knew.”

“Right,” Adam says slowly, trying to wrap his head around this new information. “So I'm the only one who cheated. Awesome. I mean, not that I _wanted_ him to, but--”

“I get it,” Miranda interrupts, and Adam's grateful that she's not going to just sit there and let him put his foot in his mouth repeatedly. “You know, I talked to Behati. She and I—your marriage and mine ended for lots of the same reasons. The biggest one wasn't that we all didn't love each other, because we really did, it was that—with the way you and Blake are? That right there is the way I wanna be loved, the way I should be loved, and I knew that I couldn't get that from Blake. We love each other, a lot, but—there are people we love more.”

And Adam is slowly starting to get, now, that Miranda is telling him this because she wants Blake to be happy, wants him to be happy, and that she's got somebody else now, and she's such a ridiculously good person that Adam feels like crying all over again, because in her position, he would've never been so magnanimous.

“So—Blake is single.”

“Very.”

“And I'm single. Ish. Single-ness pending, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I should probably talk to Blake, shouldn't I?” Adam says, and Miranda smiles at him.

“Tomorrow, hon. For now, just drink. I'm sure it's a lot to take in.” She reaches out, clinking her glass against his. “Cheers.”

* * *

 

The actual finale comes, the show where they're going to find out the winner (even though, yeah, Adam's been checking iTunes, and it's pretty much guaranteed to be Sawyer, but he's still got butterflies because he always does at this point in the show), and Adam thinks—okay, he knows—that a large part of his nerves is because he's both scared and excited to see Blake.

He shows up to the set two hours early, and hair and makeup aren't even there yet, so he just waits around on set, staring at his phone and waiting for Blake to show up. Finally, he shoots him a text, short and sweet: _get your ass to the set, I'm waiting._ He hopes it's enough.

Sure enough, Blake comes running, and fifteen minutes later, Adam gets a _where are you?_ in return. _Trailer_ , he texts back simply, and returns to waiting.

It takes less than a minute for Blake to knock on the door, and Adam calls for him to come in. When Blake enters, the expression on his face damn near breaks Adam's heart—he looks so hopeful, so sad, and somewhat resigned all at the same time, and Adam tries to project some kind of reassurance, some kind of affection through his own body language.

“Hey,” Adam greets him, bouncing his leg up and down, half-ADHD and half-nerves.

“Hey,” Blake returns, voice pitched low and gravelly, and Adam clears his throat and dives right in.

“Miranda came to see me yesterday,” he says without preamble, “and it turns out that we're both fucking idiots.”

“Yeah?” Blake asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” Adam confirms. “I didn't realize—look, here's how everything went, standing in my shoes: I'd been wanting to have sex with you for years, and then I finally get what I want, can't remember—almost any of it, wake up the next morning and see your goddamn wedding ring, and remember that we're both married.” Blake opens his mouth to say something, probably to tell Adam what he already knows now, and Adam shakes his head. “I know, okay? Miranda told me yesterday. And you probably told me, the night before, but again, I was really fucking drunk. I don't remember.”

“I should've realized,” Blake says, hope beginning to overtake the shadows in his expression. “I should've reminded you, told you the only reason I was wearin' the ring was to keep everyone off our backs.”

“I know,” Adam says.

“That's the whole reason we were drinkin', that night,” Blake tells him abruptly. “I called you, right after 'Ran left, and you came runnin'.”

“I'm not surprised,” Adam tells him. “I'd do it again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So—Behati left,” Blake says tentatively, and Adam smiles at him, a little tight, but mostly reassuring, because it still hurts that he can't have both, that he has to choose, but he knows who and what he'd pick any day of the week.

“Yup.”

“You're a free man now,” Blake observes, and Adam nods. “And was—that misunderstandin'? Was that really all that was keepin' us apart, tearin' us up this whole time?”

“Yup.”

“Goddamn,” Blake breathes, shaking his head, and Adam just laughs.

“Like I said, we're both fucking idiots.”

“I love you, y'know,” Blake confesses suddenly, and Adam blinks, then grins. “I have for years.”

“I—me too.”

“Are you gonna stop me again if I kiss you now?” Blake asks, voice low, heated.

“Why don't you find out?”

With another one of those possessive growls, Blake is striding towards him, pinning him down to the couch he was lounging on, pressing their lips and groins together, and Adam bucks his hips and flicks his tongue over Blake's lips, only for Blake to pull back a moment later.

“Fuck, Adam,” he groans, “if ya keep that up, I ain't gonna make it 'til after the show, I'll have you right here on this couch.”

The grin Adam gives him is downright devilish as he repeats, “Why don't you?”

Blake stares at him for several seconds that feel like an eternity as they tick by, and then he's back to claiming Adam's lips, rough and hard, nipping and licking until he has Adam whimpering into his mouth, his hips jerking instinctively, now, his cock seeking pressure. Without breaking their series of kisses, Blake braces himself up with one arm while he uses his free hand to fumble at Adam's jeans, growling impatiently until Adam chuckles breathlessly into the kiss, reaching down to help him.

“Off,” Blake grunts into his ear, nuzzling his neck before biting down on the skin there—Adam mewls, and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation, and he has to wait until Blake pulls away again, gingerly lapping at the angry bruise he's just left with his tongue, to lift his hips enough to shimmy his jeans off, pulling his shirt off, too, for good measure.

He's barely kicked off his jeans and boxers when Blake's hand wraps around his length, and he bucks into the touch, crying out, wordlessly begging for more, and he thinks he could come just from this, but then Blake is talking again, low and rough into his ear, “If I was a patient man, I'd get on my knees for ya again, suck you 'til you beg me to fuck ya instead--” Adam gasps, his hands going up to clutch at Blake's shoulders, holding on tight and trying not to come just from Blake's words, Blake's touch, trying to hold back until he has Blake inside him. “--but I've run right outta patience.”

“Lube,” Adam gasps out, and gestures at one of the cabinets less than a foot away. “Top drawer.” The grin Blake gives him is impish, and he nips at Adam's bottom lip before releasing his cock, pulling away just long enough to grab the bottle, pouring out a measure carefully onto his fingers--

And then he's pressing one finger into Adam, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from coming just from that. When he finally opens his eyes again, it's to see Blake staring down at him intently, hunger and wonder and tenderness warring in his expression, and Adam bucks his hips pointedly, and Blake adds a second finger, fucking in and out of him carefully, slowly, stretching him and filling him, and it maybe shouldn't be as fucking hot as it is, Blake still fully clothed above him while he's naked, legs spread, Blake's fingers inside him, getting him ready for his cock--

“Fuck, Blake, now, now--”

“I gotcha, darlin',” Blake assures him, pressing a series of quick, brief, delicate kisses to his cheek, his forehead, before moving back, rising from the couch to begin stripping his clothes off. Adam takes only a moment to breathe before reaching down to grasp himself, jerking slowly, lazily, as he watches Blake undress, and they've seen each other naked before, plenty of times, but the last time it was like _this_ is little more than a blur of impressions to Adam, and he wants to savor the image.

He bites down on his lower lip again as Blake's length comes into view, hard and flushed between his legs, and he gets only a moment to drink in the sight before Blake is back, right there, pressing in close, melting their bodies together, skin to skin, his cock rutting against Adam's. Blake's back to kissing him, a little sloppier, a little more urgently, needier, and one of Adam's hands tangles in Blake's hair, his other hand touching every inch of skin he can reach, stroking and scratching down Blake's back, squeezing a handful of his ass, and then Blake's reaching down between them, fisting his cock, spreading lube onto himself, and Adam keens, and maybe he'd be embarrassed about the noises he's been making, but he can't _think_ , can barely breathe with Blake here, like this--

Blake sits up and back, and one of his knees nudges Adam's thigh and he gets the hint, bringing his legs up as Blake lines himself up with Adam's ass, leaning forward, catching Adam's lips in another kiss as he presses forward, slow but steady, and the burn and stretch of Blake's length isn't as unfamiliar as it should be, some part of Adam's body remembering what his brain can't.

They hold the kiss until Blake's sunk all the way in, and Adam is panting by then, the half-foreign, half-familiar sensation of Blake's cock buried inside him making him want to squirm and buck and sob with how fucking good it feels, and then Blake has to break the kiss, pressing his forehead to Adam's, both of them starting to sweat. Blake's eyes are closed, and his breathing is so ragged, and Adam knows he's on the edge just from this, the same way Adam is, knows neither of them will last, not like this.

“C'mon,” Adam groans finally, pushing against Blake's back with his heels, his legs still wrapped tightly around Blake. With a groan, the bigger man complies, drawing back slightly before sinking slowly back in, and Adam moans, too, and then Blake does it again, pulling almost entirely out before thrusting back in, a little more force behind it than before, and Adam's breath hitches, breaking, as he feels Blake bottom out, and _god_ , why did they waste so much time, why haven't they been doing this for _years_ \--

“God, Adam,” Blake breathes, thrusting earnestly, now, while Adam continues to claw at his shoulders, his back, tries to hold on, to keep from coming apart before he can see Blake come. “You're so goddamn beautiful, 'specially like this, spread out for me, takin' it--”

“Fuck, Blake, shut up or I'm gonna come--”

“C'mon,” Blake urges him, snapping his hips faster, harder, into Adam, the head of his cock glancing across Adam's prostate, making him moan and gasp, colors dancing across his vision as he tries to hold back, tries to hang on, tries not to come until Blake does. “C'mon, I want ya t' come f'r me, c'mon, wanna feel it, wanna see that face you make, like you could die right now and th' only thing that matters t' ya is that I got t' have you like this--”

One more forceful thrust and then Adam's hips are bucking wildly, his muscles clenching, coming messily onto his and Blake's stomachs, Blake's mouth sliding across his in a clumsy, heated kiss, and then Blake's fucking into him, rhythm lost, racing toward his own orgasm, and Adam can't do anything more than shudder and pant and whine, his spent cock jerking as he feels Blake bury himself deep and come, heat spreading inside him.

Blake leans down, resting his sweat-drenched forehead against Adam's shoulder, one of Adam's shaking hands stroking up and down his back, Blake's length slowly softening inside him.

“Tell me you'll remember that one,” Blake rumbles into his ear, and Adam laughs, breathless and pleased.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, “but I wouldn't object if you wanna give me blow-by-blow over the phone again later. Just—do me a favor?”

“Anythin',” Blake promises instantly, and Adam goes quiet and still, awe-struck with the knowledge that Blake really means that, that he'd do anything Adam could think to ask of him. “Adam?”

“Yeah. I—just take the fucking ring off, okay?” he asks, and Blake chuckles, shoving himself up, sitting back on his haunches, looking down at Adam.

“That all?”

“For now.”

“Alright then,” Blake says, and then he tugs his wedding band off his finger and flings it, not even bothering to look at which direction it went in, where it landed.

“I didn't mean _now_ ,” Adam laughs. “You're gonna need it for the show tonight, so that people don't start asking questions before you want 'em to.”

“Fuck them,” Blake says simply, shrugging one shoulder, running two fingers over Adam's chest, tracing the Hindi lettering below his collar bone.

“You better not.” Blake laughs at him again, and Adam scrunches his nose when Blake leans down to kiss the tip.

“Nobody but you, darlin',” Blake promises, pulling reluctantly out of Adam, throwing himself down on his side to lay beside Adam. “I need a nap.”

“Doesn't sound so bad,” Adam agrees, stretching languidly, turning onto his side so that Blake is spooning him, Blake's left arm wrapped tightly around him, and the now-bare left ring finger brings a thrum of pleasure and happiness and possessiveness to Adam.

He falls slowly into sleep as his breathing syncs with Blake's, the other man pressing soft kisses to the nape of his neck before beginning to snore softly in his ear, and Adam grins. His last thought before he lets his eyes fall shut is that, even with everything they'd had to go through to get to this point, he'd do it all over again exactly the same way if it meant having Blake holding him like this.

 


	5. when your world stands still--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is something I will be expanding to further chapters. It's based on chapters 21 and 27 of Shell_LA's "Shevine Collection." You'll probably want to make sure you read those before you read this, if you haven't read them already.

The lights in the small hospital waiting room are damn near blinding, and the intercom sounding every minute or so to page Doctor This and Nurse That is deafening, and the same orderly keeps walking by every five minutes, staring at him with wide, considering eyes, like he wants an autograph but realizes it's a tasteless time to ask. Blake's ignored him from the start, sitting stiffly in the too-hard chair, one of his hands clenched too-tightly around a paper coffee cup that one of the nurses had so thoughtfully given him (he hasn't taken so much as a sip); he's been staring at the stereotypically hideous speckled linoleum floor the past hour and a half (is that all it's been? It seems like days, or even weeks, have sped by his still form), unmoving.

It should be more dramatic, he thinks distantly—there should be buckets of dried blood staining his flannel shirt and jeans, there should be some proof that he'd found his... (he doesn't know what they are, anymore, just that Adam is Important in a way he's too afraid to face) _Adam_ nearly dead in his own bathtub, some sign beyond Blake's mussed hair and a faint scent of cooling sweat. There isn't.

His phone begins to buzz loudly in his pocket, and the sudden, jarring reminder that there's a world beyond this waiting room, a life beyond the uncertainty of waiting to hear if Adam's dead or alive, makes Blake flinch. It takes him a long moment, but he finally fishes his phone out of his pocket and hits answer, putting it to his ear without saying anything, without having looked to see who it is.

“Blake? Hello?” Something in Blake, some of the tension, eases as Carson's voice floats into his ear. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Blake says—croaks, really—and he has to suppress a hysterical giggle at the sound of his own voice. “I'm here.”

“Are you okay?” Carson questions carefully, and Blake actually does bark a laugh (dark and bitter) at that, because Carson thinks there's something wrong with _him—_ probably that he's drunk. “Blake? Buddy, what's going on?”

“I fucked up. Bad,” he wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, he tells Carson, “I found Adam in his bathtub. He might be dyin'.”

“Oh my god,” Carson gasps, alarmed in a way Blake hasn't been since the paramedics shut the ambulance doors in his face. “What happened?”

“He overdosed,” Blake says flatly, remembering the empty pill bottles and the half-finished tequila.

“Oh my _god_.” Carson gasps again, and Blake can't hold back his giggle this time—and it hits him, then, that maybe he's in shock—and Carson's still talking. Oops. “--why?”

“Because I fucked up,” Blake admits. “It was—bad. I was so goddamn _angry_.” And scared, he thinks, he can admit it, now that he's even more terrified of losing Adam entirely. He was scared to let Adam in, to let him see how much it tore Blake's heart into pieces every time they fell into bed together.

“You're not making any sense, Blake.” Carson's tone has turned decidedly worried, just-this-side of panicked, even. Blake shakes his head, even though Carson can't see him, and doesn't answer. “Where are you?”

“Mercy General.”

“I'll be right there,” Carson says. Blake almost wants to say no, because having Carson there will make this real, will smash the bubble of denial Blake's cocooned himself in—but then he remembers that Carson's been nothing but a great friend to Adam, not like Blake has been, and so Carson probably has more right than Blake to be sitting in these too-hard chairs, waiting to hear “I'm so sorry” or “It's good news” from one of the white coats who pass by.

“Okay,” is all Blake says, finally, and he continues to hold the phone to his head for several long seconds after Carson's hung up.

* * *

 

It isn't fair that Carson doesn't have to wait after arriving to find out how Adam is, not like Blake, who'd been sitting there for days, months, years. Instead, Carson shows up and barely gets his arms around Blake in a panicked, desperate hug before an older man in a coat with a stethoscope is striding in, expression pinched but not carrying that cloyingly sensitive apology. Blake relaxes, the air rushing back into his lungs.

It doesn't matter how bad it is, or what Adam tried to do, or why, because Blake takes one look at that doctor's face and knows he's still alive.

“How is he?” Carson asks before the doctor can get a word out, and the man tries to smile, but he's too tired, practically dead on his feet, and it's more of a twitch of his lips.

“He's been lucky, so far,” the doctor tells them. “We were able to pump his stomach quickly enough, and he should recover just fine, in time. He isn't going to feel very good when he wakes up, but he'll be okay. He got help in time—I understand he has you to thank.” The doctor gives Blake a warm, approving look. Blake's stomach churns, and he shakes his head.

“Can I see him?” he asks, and the doctor nods.

“I don't see why not,” he says. “Visiting hours will be over soon, but—given the circumstances—we're ordering that he not be left alone. You can stay.” Carson sucks in a breath like he's been punched as the reality of the situation, the gravity of it, comes crashing down on him.

Adam tried to kill himself. Adam's in the hospital on a suicide watch. Adam--

“What room?” Blake asks, still entirely too calm, too removed from himself, from his body and his thoughts.

“I'll walk you,” the doctor says, and Blake nods, standing slowly, afraid that his knees might not work, that they may give out, but they hold, and he's perfectly steady as the three of them march silently down the twisting halls to a rather secluded room.

The interior is somewhat more peaceful than the waiting room or the busy hallways, the walls painted a subtle green, a blue blanket covering Adam. They'd put him in a cotton hospital gown, and his hair's mussed in its natural way, no gel or product at all applied to it, sticking up in all directions from sweat and Adam's tossing and turning. He's still, now, though, and pale, not as tan as Blake's used to, and not animated.

There's an IV in the crook of his arm and Velcro restraints waiting on the bedrails to be used if Adam wakes up and isn't happy to still be alive, and Blake doubts for the first time, just for a moment, that he can stay through this.

Then he remembers—this is his mess, he did this, and he has to fix it.

He walks around to the far side of the bed and claims a chair, slightly less uncomfortable than the ones in the waiting room, and sighs.

“What happened?” Carson asks, voice low and gravelly and Blake knows him well enough to realize that he's on the verge of crying.

“He sent me a text, earlier,” Blake says, staring at Adam, because Adam is Important and he doesn't give a fuck about Carson, not in that moment. “'I know you're gonna be mad. Just know that I'm sorry.'” Blake pauses and laughs, that same bitter, hollow sound, and shakes his head, the fingers of his right hand idly twisting his wedding ring in his anxiety. “I thought he was gonna tell Miranda, like he'd been threatenin' to for months.”

“What? Blake, you're still not making sense,” Carson says. “Start from the beginning, please.”

“We've been sleepin' together,” Blake admits easily, and yeah, three or four hours ago, to say it aloud would've seemed like the end of the world, but it doesn't matter anymore. It's not Important. “Miranda didn't know. He started askin' me, a few months ago, if I'd leave her. For him.”

“Jesus,” Carson swears quietly. “That—explains a lot. I'm guessing you said no?”

Blake shrugs, because he never did answer the question when Adam posed it. He'd always just—shut him up. With kisses, at first, bruising and angry—and then with words, calculated to hurt just as much as a knife—and finally with his fists.

“I thought he'd told her, when I got that message. I thought he was forcin' me to choose,” Blake says dully, eyes still fixed on Adam. “And I was pissed. I started callin', wantin' to give him an earful, tell him off for—anyway. He never answered, too busy washin' down pills with Patron--” Out of the corner of his eye, Blake sees Carson flinch. He doesn't pause. “--and so I went over there. I didn't know what he was doin'. I thought he was baitin' me, at that point. I went over there to--” Blake doesn't finish that thought, because he knows what he would've done, if Adam had answered the door just like any other time. He would've hit him, backhanding him until Adam hit the floor, screamed at him, held him down—Blake shakes his head again.

“He didn't answer the door, so I went lookin' for him.”

“And you found him in the bathtub.” Carson's voice is strained. Blake nods.

“I found him, and two empty pill bottles, and his fucking tequila.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Carson swears again. “Fuck. This is fucked up.”

Blake laughs again, shaking his head. “It's _been_ fucked up. Everything's already _fucked up_.” _Now_ , Blake doesn't say, _we've gotta fix it._ I've _gotta fix it._

He gets the feeling that Carson hears it anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I just wanted to post what I have so far to let everyone know I'm still alive and writing, just slowly.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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